Shattered Reality
by Lila2
Summary: Perfection is the in the eye of the beholder (R/L/J)


Author's Note:  
My take on the Logan/Rogue relationship.   
  
~ * ~  
"All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. So I rate us on the basis of our splendid failure to do the impossible."- William Faulkner  
  
~ * ~  
I'm in the gym watching him from the bleachers. He's teaching some of the younger students self-defense, how to punch and kick and if necessary, take another's life. They're all little boys wanting to be him when they grow up, all tough and male and so masculine it makes me melt inside. He's beautiful: his muscles flexing and bunching as he demonstrates a jab, his sweaty hair pushed off his face by a red bandana. He's so tender with the kids, so gentle; for once he has the patience of a saint, calmly redoing the same move over and over again so the one kid who doesn't understand can learn. I smile as I watch him hug the kid when he finally gets it right. He'll be the most wonderful father.   
  
He's about to show the kids some real hand-to-hand combat and he searches the gym for a partner. I get up, ready to offer my services, but his eyes focus on someone else. She walks in, looking as perfect and flawless as ever. She's wearing nothing but a sport bra and spandex shorts, her toned body openly displayed to anyone in sight. I look down at my own outfit--at the sweatpants and shirt, the heavy sneakers, the gloves--not an inch of skin is showing and feel like Cinderella's ugly stepsister.   
  
He calls out to her and asks her to help. She smiles, that pristine, blindingly white smile of hers and agrees. I watch as she walks over to the little group, her hips swaying slightly and her smile growing wider. She stops to say something to the children; most of them give her a hug and her laughter echoes through the gym. I hate her. I don't want to, but I do. She's perfect, there's simply no other way to describe her. She's smart and beautiful and funny, with a penchant for telling really dirty jokes. But she's a great person to talk too, open and full of constructive advice; I know I could turn to her in a second if I needed something. I wish I were more like her. She's well mannered and calm and collected, but I know she can party with the best of them; I've seen her down a beer in five seconds flat. Her male students are infatuated with her; they've got a hundred dollars pooled for the first person to grab her ass. Everyone loves her; she's the darling of the school and can do no wrong. You know that saying, "She's the girl every guy wants to be with and every girl wants to be?" Well, that's her.   
  
I could hate her for all those things, for being everything I'm not, but that's not why. It's because of him. I watch them spar; on the surface there doesn't seem to be anything out of place, but I notice it. It's like this undercurrent of heat that picks up whenever they're together. I watch them fight and punch and roll around on the mat and begin to feel very warm. It's almost voyeuristic, like I'm peeking in on a private moment I shouldn't be watching. Other people notice it too. I can see Storm avert her eyes and usher her biology class out; I see Scott frown and his body tense. I understand; it's hard to watch the person you love engage in foreplay with someone else.  
  
I love him. I have for so long that I can't remember being at the mansion and not loving him. I know I'm just a child to him, like a kid sister. He calls me "kid" and ruffles my hair and goes out of his way to spend time with me, but it's never as more than friends. I'm almost eighteen now, almost legal; I'm almost ready for him. I can't understand why he chose her over me. I mean, I'm the one he gave his dog tags to, right? So why does he always pick her over me? It's not like they're together. But he loves her, has since the first day he arrived. I know this because it's in my head replaying like a broken record. She doesn't return his feelings, at least she says she doesn't. But I know there's something going on with them. I see the hidden smiles and the heated looks; I see her face flush whenever he's around and his eyes darken with desire. There's something going on with them, something that makes them much more than friends.  
  
I hear giggling and I look up to see him pinning her to the mat. Their breathing is heavy, their chests heaving as they try to catch their breath. He's lying directly on top of her; so close I can see beads of sweat drip off his forehead and onto her; so close that she can feel his breath on her cheeks. She laughs and throws her arms around his neck. He smiles, but she has an ulterior motive. Before I know what's happening she's pinned him, flipping him flat on his back and straddling his hips. She bends down to him and for a second I think she's going to kiss him. But instead she whispers, "You lose," and throws her arms in the air in a sign of victory. The kids rush over and hug her, going on and on about what amazing an athlete she is. I want to throw up. Athlete my ass; she just wants him to see her in next to nothing. I begin to wonder if he's seen her in nothing at all.   
  
I need to get out of here, need to get fresh air. I pick up my stuff to leave when I hear someone call my name. She's standing at the bottom of the bleachers, that infuriating smile on her face. "Marie," she says. "I was wondering if you want to go running with me?"  
  
I do my best to be polite. "Don't you have class?"   
  
She smiles again and I fight the urge to smack her. "Not today. The Professor's taking them on a field trip. Come on, it'll be fun. We can do some girl bonding."  
  
I would rather put hot pokers under my fingernails then spend the day with her, but she's being so nice about it that I can't refuse. "Okay," I agree. "Want to do lunch afterwards?"   
  
She links arms with me and laughs. "Something really fatty and bad for us. That's the best way to end a run." She runs down the bleachers and plants her hands on her hips. "Come on! Last one to the trail buys lunch!"  
  
~ * ~  
It ends up being a really fun day. We have a great workout, of which I win, and she buys me lunch at a local deli. I watch her dig into an enormous Reuben with grease and sauce dripping down the sides and wonder how she keeps up her figure. She's long and lean, but with enough ass and boobs to keep any guy satisfied. I pick at my lean turkey and cheese and wish I could eat like her, but with me, any unnecessary grease equals five unwanted pounds.  
  
"How do you eat like that?" I ask her.   
  
She looks up in surprise and puts down her sandwich. "What do you mean?" she asks as she dips a French-fry in ketchup.   
  
I shoot her a skeptical look. "You know what I mean. You eat shit all the time and don't gain an ounce."  
  
She frowns and I apologize for cursing; I know if I don't I'll get a lecture about how un-ladylike it is to curse and I'm not in the mood for it today. "But seriously," I continue. "How do you stay so skinny? You eat things that are bad for you and drink and never go a day without dessert, but you're always the same weight." I lean forward. "What's your secret?"  
  
She leans back in her chair and contemplates for a second. "It's easy," she says. "You just take care of yourself. I exercise regularly and I eat in moderation. You know, it's not what you eat, but how much of it. I used to be really health conscious, like counting calories and only eating fat-free. But nothing filled me up and I was always hungry and really not happy. I started eating what I like again and my weight went back to normal." She taps her temple. "It's all in your head. When you're happy, food becomes less important to you. When I liked who I was, inside and out, food was enjoyable again." She picks her sandwich up again. "Besides, why are you worrying about this? You're beautiful."  
  
I look at the table, tracing the rim of my plate with a finger. "I'm not beautiful. I'm a freak."  
  
"Oh, honey," she says sympathetically. "You're gorgeous. You're smart and pretty and funny and boys like you."  
  
"They do not. I was the only girl who didn't go to the Senior Prom."  
  
"Trust me, they do like you. I'm a teacher; I hear these things. They just get intimidated by beautiful girls they know are too good for them."  
  
I look up in surprise. "Boys really like me?"   
  
"Of course they do! They're just a little nervous and scared of rejection. Besides, boys your age tend to be on the immature side. When I was in high school I was the freak. I was gawky and awkward and terrified of boys. I scared them off."  
  
"They aren't scared of you now."  
  
She laughs. "That's because I'm twenty-seven and engaged. I'm off-limits. One day though, the right guy will come along and make you forget all about them. You'll meet the man of your dreams, just like I did."  
  
I know I shouldn't, but I ask anyway. "Are you really off-limits?"  
  
She looks at me curiously. "Of course I am. You know Scott and I are getting married. We're totally committed to each other. What makes you think we're not?"  
  
I want to ask about Logan, if she's fucked him yet or just wants to. . .but I don't. She's too freaking nice and open; I couldn't hurt her by asking that. I just smile and shake my head. "No reason, I'm just so amazed you've found someone you're willing to give the rest of your life to."   
  
It's her turn to smile and she spends the rest of lunch telling me about the joy of relationships and that someday, when the time is right, I'll find the right person for myself. I don't tell her I have found the right person, but he's in love with someone else. . .that he's in love with her.  
  
~ * ~  
The next night is Saturday and everyone is at Harry's, well not the students, but a good portion of the faculty. I'm included too because of my indefinable status: I'm not a student, but I'm not a teacher either, so I sort of float aimlessly between the two groups. I have a new fake ID and I tried it out tonight; it worked flawlessly. Logan took me for it; it was the last big thing we did together.  
  
I see her, noting the way the light brings out the rich crimson of her hair. She looks hot tonight, even I can admit it. She's wearing painted on black pants and boots and a tiny camisole that shows off her breasts. Her shirt is the kind that you don't have to wear a bra with and she's constantly on the verge of popping out. I remember the first time I wore a shirt like that. I was on the way to a party and Logan caught me. His eyes narrowed and he ripped his shirt off. I thought my big moment had finally arrived and I parted my lips in anticipation. I was devastated when he forced the t-shirt over my head and gave me a lecture about dressing like a hooker. I spent the rest of the night in tears.  
  
I shake my head to forget the memory and sip my beer. I glance over to wear everyone is playing a game of quarters. Scott's cheeks are flushed and his movement unsteady; he's a piss-poor drinker and it's really obvious. Yet, unlike him, Jean can drink most people under the table. The game is down to her and Logan and they're going head to head. He flips a quarter and it lands in her shot glass, tequila I think, and he quirks an eyebrow at her. She smiles seductively and slowly raises her wrist; yup, definitely tequila. Every pair of male eyes in the room are fixed on her as her tongue slips out and licks her skin. Logan shifts in his chair and his eyes get hooded and hot; I wish he looked at me like that. Still smiling she shakes the salt on her wrist and licks it again; Logan is really uncomfortable now; a muscle jumps in his cheek and his eyes darken even more. I'm impressed at how well she takes the shot, at how she doesn't gag or cough; she doesn't even flinch at the sourness of the lemon. She wins the game and Scott drops a kiss on her cheek in congratulations; Logan shoves away and storms outside. I don't think he's really that upset he lost; he just doesn't want people to see the noticeable bulge in his jeans.  
  
On the ride home Ororo's driving and Scott's in the front seat with the open window blowing cool air on his face. I'm wedged in the back next to Logan and Jean, trying not to watch their little show. She's leaning against him and he has one arm wrapped around her shoulders, his fingers tangling in her hair. Her hand traces a slow pattern down his thigh, stopping every now and then to squeeze. He sucks in a breath and my eyes shift to Scott, but he's too drunk to know what's going on. I see Ororo's surprised eyes in the rearview mirror, but she doesn't say anything. She's not like that; she doesn't spill other people's secrets.  
  
When we get home I can't wait to get out of the car. I don't even stop to offer Ororo my assistance in getting them to bed. I take off into the sky, luxuriating in the feel of the air on my face. I fly so hard and so fast that the wind whips my hair and stings my cheeks, but I love it. It makes me feel alive in ways that nothing else can. . .except one man.  
  
~ * ~  
The next morning I watch the three of them, wondering if anything has changed. Scott has a pair of sunglasses taped to his visor and he's sipping coffee; he groans every time someone offers him food and Logan smirks at him. Jean's sitting next to him, holding his hand and smiling tenderly. She brushes a lock of hair of his face and he winces as her fingers touch his skin; it's a nasty hangover he's nursing.   
  
"Next time not so much, huh?" she asks. She kisses his cheek and pats his hand.  
  
He nods and strokes her hair; across the table Logan's smirk disappears. He stares contemptuously at his muffin and picks it a part grain by grain. I smile to myself, finding a sick pleasure in his pain, but I can't help it. He's upset and needs comfort. . .and I'm just the girl to give it to him.  
  
~ * ~  
I take Logan's jeep and go shopping for the perfect outfit. If I'm going to give myself to him I want to look good doing it. I look everywhere, but nothing's right: Abercrombie and Fitch is too preppy; the GAP is too denim; Express is too cheap. I want something sexy, but classy as well. I settle on a green slip dress; it's tight, but not too tight and comes with a matching sweater. What I wear on top is important, but not as important as what I wear underneath; a trip to Victoria's Secret will take care of that. I want to blow his mind. . .and a few other things, but that's a different story.   
  
As I drive home I breathe in his scent; it's cigars and the outdoors and raw masculinity. I pop in a tape and sing along to the loud, thumping music. It's hard and primal and exactly like him. He's everything I've ever wanted, strong and powerful, but wounded inside. . .like me. We're two lost souls who've lost our way and found something in each other. He understands me like no one else, knows where I come from. I need someone like that, who can see past my flaws and untouchable skin and like the person inside. I need him.  
  
I come home and smuggle the bags inside; I'm not embarrassed or anything, but I don't feel like explaining where I've been. I spend the rest of the afternoon looking for something to do; I try watching TV, but nothing interests me and I ran out of good romance novels last week. I decide to take a nap, thinking some rest will get my mind off Logan. I'm heading to my room when I hear voices, Jean and Logan's voices to be exact. They're not loud, but I've trained myself to pick up his voice; I would recognize its deep, scratchy tones anywhere. They're arguing about something and I take a step closer to listen.  
  
"I'm getting married, Logan," Jean says. "You know that. You need to stop this."  
  
"Stop what? Havin' feelins' for ya?"  
  
"Yes! You can't give me what I want. I need more than sex."  
  
He laughs. "If all I wanted was to fuck you I woulda had you a long time ago."  
  
She laughs now. "You think so? You think you have that kind of power over me--."  
  
I hear a crash and I think he's slammed her against the wall. I hear her moan and I know he has. He's kissing her, with all the passion and angst in his tortured soul. I hear a sucking noise as he breaks the kiss.   
  
"Think about that and tell me you didn't feel anything," he growls.  
  
"I can't feel anything," she says weakly.  
  
"Remember it, Jeannie. Remember when you're with him and he isn't giving you what you need." Then he's gone. I slink around the corner so he doesn't see me, but he sniffs the air and realizes I was there. I rush to my room before he catches me and hurriedly dress so I can look my best when he finally finds me.  
  
~ * ~  
I get tired of waiting and head to the kitchen for a snack. Jean's there, baking some sort of cake. She's wearing an apron covered with signatures and messages; she got it as a present after her first successful meal. Only Jean would get a present for finally made something edible. The rest of the faculty covered a white apron with quotations and stories and gave it to her the next night at dinner. I remember trying not to roll my eyes during the entire display.   
  
I go the refrigerator to get a glass of milk and she looks up from the mixing bowl. "Hey, Marie," she says as she brushes her hair off her face. She's covered with flour and her hair is falling out of its ponytail, but she still looks perfect. I hate her even more. "That's a cute dress."  
  
I look down at dress; I'd forgotten I was even wearing it. "Thanks," I say. "It's new. What are you making?"  
  
She stops for a second and blows a red curl off her face. "A cake for Scott. He sprained his ankle in the Danger Room today and he deserves a little special treatment."  
  
"Want any help?"  
  
She looks at the bowl and the recipe and sighs. "Yeah, I think so. You know I'm not much of a cook."  
  
I spend the rest of the evening with her, helping to bake the cake and ice it, but she insists on writing the message. I watch over her shoulder as she carefully scrawls, "Feel Better Scoot!" Scoot!  
  
I burst out laughing. "Jean," I say between giggles. "You just wrote--."  
  
"No," she whispers and I look up in alarm. "It's not perfect anymore. Why the fuck isn't anything perfect?"  
  
"Jean," I say. "It's just a cake--."  
  
"It's not just a cake!" she says loudly. "It's everything. I can't do anything right."   
  
"Jean?" I ask. "Are you okay?"  
  
"No!" she yells. "Can't you see I'm not okay? Nothing's okay! Everything is going to hell!"   
  
"Jean, what's wrong?"  
  
"Everything is wrong. My grading's behind and I haven't been to class in a week and I can't trust myself around him and I'm afraid Scott is going to break our engagement and I'll be all alone and so unhappy." She looks at me and there are tears in her eyes. "I just want to be happy. Is that so much to ask? Is that so much to fucking ask?!" She picks the cake up and throws it against the refrigerator; it hits with a squishy thump and slides slowly to the floor. A satisfied smile creeps across her face, but I'm in shock. Did she really just do that? Did perfect, I-can-do-no-wrong Jean Grey really just throw a cake at an appliance? She buries her head in her hands and slumps to the floor.  
  
"Jean?" I say tentatively. "Wanna talk about it?"   
  
"There's nothing to say," she says, wiping tears off her cheeks. "I'm fucked up. I fuck things up, I fuck people up; I'm just fucked."  
  
"You know you're cursing."  
  
"Who the fuck cares?"  
  
"It's unladylike. A proper lady would never curse."  
  
She laughs a watery laugh and I'm relieved that she isn't crying anymore; she was really beginning to scare me. "Thank you. I needed that. I'm sorry I blew up there. It's been a stressful couple days and that was the icing on the cake, no pun intended."  
  
It's my turn to laugh. "Are you sure you're okay? I mean, you can tell me what's bothering you. You've listened to me bitch about my problems enough.  
  
"I know. It's just. . .you know. . .I don't really know what's bothering me. I just feel so out of sorts lately, like everything I touch falls apart and I can't do anything right. Nothing is the same anymore."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"There's just this feeling I get, that something's changed. My engagement is so new and I'm still getting used to it and my students have been more over-sexed than usual and something's up with you, although I'll respect your privacy and wait for you to tell me what it is instead of probing your mind. I don't like change. You know that line, "if it's not broken, don't fix it?" Well, I don't want things to change. I like them the way they are. I don't know how to cope with things I'm not ready for."  
  
I nod in sympathy, but I know she stopped talking about the engagement and academy a long time ago. This is about Logan, about the way he makes her feel, even if she doesn't want to. This is about how Jean Grey is finally in a situation she can't control; she isn't perfect anymore.   
  
"Marie?" she asks as we clean up the mess.  
  
"Hmmn?"  
  
"Could you not tell Logan about this? I don't want him to worry about me." She asks me to protect Logan, not Scott, the man she's going to marry. She said she couldn't have feelings for him, but it's obvious she's lying; I guess that little argument of theirs was grounded in some sort of reality after all.  
  
I help wash the pots and pans and watch her careful movements. She redoes her ponytail and smoothes her apron; she wipes the mascara trails off her cheeks and takes deep breaths; when she's done she looks like her usual perfect self; the façade is back up. When everything is put away I head back to my room to wait for Logan. I think about what happened here tonight, what happened to Jean. I'd always seen her on this pedestal, as faultless and ideal and unable to do wrong. But tonight I saw her in a different light: she can have bad days just like the rest of us; she has emotions and fears and a negative side; she can be conflicted over loving a man she doesn't want to love. I realize Jean isn't perfect; no one is. But some of us, like her, do a good job of pretending we are.  
  
~ * ~  
I wait for him for hours and I'm in my pajamas when he finally shows up. I'm wearing a shortie set with teddy bears on them and I think longingly of my new dress hanging in my closet; I'd rather die than let him see me in faded flannel and my hair resembling a bird's nest. It's nearly three in the morning when my door creaks open and he slips inside. He's so quiet and moves like lightening; I guess it's all those animal instincts. I get out of bed and wait for him to start talking. When he says nothing I realize he's waiting for me to start.  
  
"What are you doing here?" I ask. "It's almost three in the morning, Logan."  
  
He cuts right to the point. "How much do ya know?"  
  
"About what?"  
  
He takes a step closer and I feel the anger radiating from his body. He's wound tight as a spring; if I touch him he'll pop. "Don't play games with me, kid," he says, his voice threatening. "Tell the truth."  
  
I sigh and sit down on the bed while he leans back against my desk, his arms crossed over his chest. "I don't know much. I heard you and Jean today. You were arguing."  
  
"What did ya hear?" he asks.  
  
"You have feelings for her," I say softly. "Why do you have feelings for her?" I ask, my voice rising. I get off the bed and start walking towards him. "She's taken, Logan, completely out of your league. She'd never lower herself to slum with you!" I'm yelling now, furious at him and at myself for our impossible situation. I want him to see how imperfect for him she is, how the only woman meant for him is me.  
  
His eyes are livid and I take a step back in self-defense. I'm afraid of him; while I might be invulnerable, he's faster than me and his adamantium claws can rip through my skin like tissue paper. "You don't know what you're talkin' about," he snarls.  
  
"So tell me?" I demand. "What is the deal with you and Jean?"  
  
"There is no deal. She's with Scott."  
  
"But you just said--."  
  
"Forget what I just said. Don't bring her up again. Got it?"   
  
I swallow audibly and nod. There's something so threatening in his tone, so disparaging in his eyes that I agree to drop it; I'm afraid that if I don't he'll rip me to shreds.  
  
We stand there in silence for a while, each of us contemplating our own thoughts and feelings. I glance at his face and a light bulb goes off in my mind. I flip my hair off my face and pull down my pajama bottoms so my tummy is exposed. I walk over to Logan and put a comforting arm around his shoulders. "There'll be other girls, Logan. You just fell for one that's unattainable."  
  
"I told you not to talk about her." He's staring at the floor and I admire the muscular curve of his neck and shoulders.  
  
I start massaging the muscles of his bicep. "I'm just trying to make you feel better," I say, making my voice low and breathy on purpose, but he doesn't seem to notice. "I'll do anything to make you feel better." His raises his head and looks at me with conflicted eyes. I see his eyes study my face and move lower to check out my body. His eyes darken in the dim light and I realize he's looking at me the way he looked at Jean last night. I want to kiss him so bad I can taste it. I know I shouldn't, there's always the risk of hurting him, but with his healing factor I know he can take it. I lift my face and softly press my mouth against his. For a moment he seems to respond, but then he lets out a roar of protest and jerks away. He pushes away from me and steps back, furiously rubbing his mouth.  
  
"What the fuck was that?" he yells.  
  
I feel tears prick the back of my eyes. "I. . .I. . .I thought I was doing what you wanted."  
  
"So you fucking kissed me? Why would I want that?"  
  
I feel a tear creep down my cheek and I angrily brush it away. "I thought you wanted me to comfort you. You seemed so sad and I just wanted to make you feel better."  
  
"I wanted to talk to you, not kiss you. You've screwed up everything!"  
  
"But. . ."I trail off.  
  
"But what?" he demands loudly.   
  
"You looked at me that way. I thought that was what you wanted."  
  
"I looked at you like what? Like a friend?"  
  
"No!" I yell. "Like a lover. You looked at me like you look at Jean. I know how you feel about her. . .I thought I could make you forget her. I just want you to be happy."  
  
His features shift and sympathy creeps into his eyes. He sits down on the bed and pats the seat next to him. "Sit, kid."  
  
I glare at him. "No."  
  
He sighs. "I mean it, kid. We needa talk this out."  
  
I reluctantly sit. "There's nothing to talk about."  
  
He runs a hand through his hair. "Why didya think we were more than friends?"  
  
"'Cause you understand me. You know where I come from and how I got here. You don't expect anything of me, but you're proud when I do something good. Jean's not right for you. She's like this perfect woman that no one can touch; she doesn't understand you, not like I do."  
  
He laughs sardonically. "You think I understand ya?"  
  
"How could I not?" I say sympathetically. "I'm exactly like you. My past is hazy and a blur of fuzzy memories, but what I do remember is pain. We're different, Logan. We're not like the rest of them. We need to stick together." I reach out and cup his cheek.   
  
He jerks out of the caress and stares into space. "You're right," he finally says. "We are the same. And that's why it'll never work."  
  
It takes me a second to catch my breath. "Why not?" I ask weakly.   
  
"Because we're too alike. We'd only drag each other down. But Jean. . .she's different. I like how I feel when I'm with her; I don't feel like an animal anymore."  
  
"I can make you feel that way too! You just need to give me a chance." I'm pleading with him, ready to get on my knees and beg.  
  
He shakes his head. "You're a sweet kid--."  
  
"Don't call me that! I'm not a child anymore and I don't like being treated like one!"  
  
He looks at me for a second. "No," he admits. "You're grown up. But I'm not the right person for you."  
  
"I could be. . .if you gave it a chance."  
  
He sighs. "I don't see ya that way. You're like a sister to me, a daughter. It would be wrong."  
  
"I'm giving myself to you. Who cares about what's right or wrong?"  
  
"I do. One day a man will come and sweep ya off ya feet, but that man isn't me. Marie, I don't love you. Not like that. "  
  
I tear up and turn so he doesn't see me cry. "So you think Jean is right for you? Come on! She's got a telephone-sized pole wedged up her ass!"  
  
"Don't talk about her like that." His voice is ominous but I stand my ground.  
  
"Why the hell not? I'm allowed to feel however the hell I want!"  
  
"I love her!" he says softly. "That's why."  
  
I stop dead in my tracks and my eyes widen. "What?" I whisper.  
  
"Ya heard me."  
  
"You love her?"  
  
"Is it so hard to believe?"  
  
I'm stunned. I always thought he wanted her, desired her--but never loved her. "I'm sorry, Logan." I know how it feels to experience unrequited love.  
  
"Whatever," he says. "But don't say anything to Jeannie, okay? I don't wanna upset her."  
  
Jeannie--he even has a special nickname for her; he's really in love and there's nothing I can do about. We spend the rest of the night talking, just catching up on the friendship we've let slip away. The next morning is awkward to say the least, but over the next few weeks the weirdness slips away. He's been spending a lot more time with Jean lately, lots of alone time with Jean, but I don't ask him about it; that's our one unspoken rule: we never talk about that night or Jean. It's better this way, ignoring the things that hurt us. We can concentrate on the good things in life, that we've both found someone exactly like ourselves. Someone we can respect and trust, but never love. Not the way he loves Jean or the way I'll love that man of my dreams some day.  
  
~ * ~  
That day comes a lot sooner than I thought. The Professor calls me into his office and asks me to show a new student around. He's just like me, too old for high school, but in desperate need of controlling his powers. All I can see is his back: a tangled mass of too-long brown hair, a beaten leather jacket, and a dirty, scared motorcycle helmet. He's slouched in his seat and acting like he doesn't have a care in the world, like it doesn't matter that he's just been accepted to the most prestigious mutant academy in the world; what I wouldn't do to take him to the Danger Room and give him a good ass-whipping. I walk in and shut the door; he turns to study me. It doesn't help that he's hot; I want to hate him, but he's too beautiful for that kind of anger.   
  
"Marie," the Professor says. "I'm glad you're here. I'd like you to meet our new student." I take one look at him and feel like I've known him for years. His eyes are hidden behind dark glasses, but I know he's looking at me like I always wanted Logan to, like he can see inside me, like he knows all my secrets. I feel myself blush and I self-consciously raise a hand to my flushed cheeks. "Marie," the Professor says. "This is Remy Le Beau. Remy, I'd like you to meet Marie."  
  
"I prefer Rogue," I say matter-of-factly.   
  
He rises out of his chair, moving as sleekly and stealthily as a cat. He takes my gloved hand in his and presses his lips to it. "Bonjour, chere," he murmurs against my hand. "Enchante."  
  
"Merci," I say with a smile. "Nice to meet you too."   
  
"Wonderful," the Professor says. "I can see you two are already getting along."   
  
I take him out of the office and show him around the school. He pretends to be interested in the biology labs and history classrooms, but I feel his eyes on me and know he could care less. There's something brewing between us, something hot and intense and as passionate as Jean and Logan's star-crossed love; I want this kind of love, this kind of man. The day itself--it wasn't that interesting--but it changes my life forever. It's the day I found the man of my dreams.  
  
~ * ~  
Please, please, please respond.  



End file.
